


All in the Family—Revenge

by Polly_Lynn



Series: The Heliotrope Series [2]
Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Family, Gen, Humor, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-08 19:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4317909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Her desk is pretty much clear these days, and when a gift bag or wrapped box mysteriously appears, it's almost become its own thing. One-upmanship when somebody finds a baby thing that's spectacularly ugly or useless or inappropriate, and the name Heliotrope has all but faded from memory. It's for the best. Even if he's a little wistful, it's almost certainly for the best."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. Yeah. This is a follow-up I definitely was not going to write to "All in the Family," which I also was not going to write. (CURSE YOU, CORA CLAVIA). A three-shot with a short epilogue that'll be up over the next few days.

 

It finally seems to be over. It's been weeks. Long weeks with some definite downsides. Every day he's been in a little extra fear for his life. Every day he's taken a little extra care to keep her caffeinated and keep his head down. But now things are winding down for sure.

Her desk is pretty much clear these days, and when a gift bag or wrapped box mysteriously appears, it's almost become its own thing. One-upmanship when somebody finds a baby thing that's spectacularly ugly or useless or inappropriate, and the name _Heliotrope_ has all but faded from memory. It's for the best. Even if he's a little wistful, it's almost certainly for the best.

And she took the flowers home. It's a good bet that she has, anyway, and the idea of a like-it-or-not daily reminder tickles him. The fact that he's wormed his way into that part of her life in some small way. And just the fact of it. That she accepted something from him at all. It makes him smile.

He doesn't know about the other thing. The tiny sweater and hat. The sentimental note he dashed off on a whim and half expected her to hunt him down and kill him for. He doesn't know what became of that, and he can't exactly ask. In quiet moments when it feels like they've turned some kind of strange corner in the midst of all this, he has to remind himself that he _definitely_ cannot ask. He has to remind himself it's a good thing it's finally over.

He's doing just that, first thing one morning. He's taking a second by the elevator, tamping down the out-of-place disappointment at the sight of her empty desk, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, she's there. She's jerking him by the collar into a hallway he swears he's never seen before.

He's _struggling_ to remind himself that it's over—that it was a spur-of-the-moment piece of nonsense in the first place—when she's shoving him against the wall hard. She's putting her body into it. Her _whole_ body, and a tiny, stupid part of his brain thinks she's finally seen the light. And if a previously undiscovered stealth hallway isn't where envisioned launching Operation Heliotrope, he can work with it. He can definitely work with it.

"Have you _seen_ this?"

She shoves something in his face. It rustles. Smells familiar, but off somehow.

"No?" He proceeds cautiously. He doesn't mention the fact that she's literally holding it under his nose, so there's no possible way he _could_ actually see it, even now. "May . . . um . . . may I?"

He's worried for a second that reaching for the thing—newspaper?—is going to lose him a finger. At _least_ a finger, but she abruptly turns away, pacing the short hallway and obviously looking for something to do violence to. Determined not to be that something, he turns his attention to the item she's just pushed into his hands.

It _is_ a newspaper. Page six of _The Ledger,_ in fact, and at first he thinks it's old. He coughs and shifts on his feet, like he's looking for better light, but he's really hiding a smile. A tiny, stupid smile. It's the picture of them from the charity event—the Delgado case.

He loves it. The two of them, dressed to the nines, their heads bent together as they walk the red carpet. _That_ would have been the way to start Operation Heliotrope. Not that there was an Operation Heliotrope then.

Not that there _is_ one now _,_ he reminds himself sternly, returning to the page. He's at a loss. She definitely doesn't love the photo. She didn't love _anything_ about that whole scenario ( _except the dress,_ whispers the tiny, stupid part of his brain that fixates on it hanging in her closet, another successful incursion), but it's old news, right? He can't think why it would have her manhandling him and stalking from wall to wall like something caged.

He's about to ask. He's working up the courage when she slaps the paper with the back of her hand on one of her circuits.

"Read, Castle," she snaps, and then she's off again.

_Read._

It's a pointless order at first. He can't. He has a sudden, sinking feeling and everything goes kind of fuzzy around the edges. The blurb—the caption hugging the picture—is wrong. Too long, and it's all above the fold. It's not old. It's new. It's bad. He reads out loud. He can't help himself.

" _Three's Company? Author and only just recently eligible bachelor Richard Castle and brand new gal pal Katherine Beckett have let slip the news they're expecting their first child. Inside sources say it's a girl—and hint that the couple have already chosen a name and a tony Upper West Side nursery school. No word on whether the parents to be plan to make their own relationship official before the new — "_ He breaks off, crushing the paper in his fist. "This is outrageous!"

"Can you believe it?" She spins on her heel, twin blotches of rage on her cheeks and her eyes sparking green.

"It's . . . that snotty dig at the end!" He smoothes the offending paper out again. " _Make it official_ . . .as if we wouldn't . . . as if I'm some sort of . . ."

_"What?"_

She stops pacing as abruptly as she started. He tastes danger in the air. There's a slow, sudden, grinding noise that might be imaginary. It might be his brain—the _not_ tiny stupid part—trying to tell him something important. About his outrage and hers and the fact that they might be focusing on _very_ different things. About the fact that that there _was_ no announcement, because there _is_ no little Heliotrope on the way, and he has to fight past the same nonsensical let down he's felt every morning as the gifts have tapered off.

"It's fake!" He hears himself say it before he's even caught up, his mouth running well ahead of both parts of his brain, and that can't be good. He snaps the paper taut, holding it up between them. The effect is a little too much like toreador's cape, especially when her nostrils flare, but he blunders on, talking fast and praying she forgets his previous outburst. "Look!" He stabs at the header. "April 31st. No such date. And everything repeats except the announcement. Nonsense filler." He lifts the whole thing to his nose. "It's a fake paper. That's why the newsprint smells wrong!"

She folds her arms, looking at him like he's a moron. "Of _course_ it's fake."

"Well thanks for the heart attack! You couldn't have told me that from the start?" he snaps.

It's the wrong move. Absolutely wrong, because she's still furious. She's advances on him, misstep away from doing violence, but it's fake and she knew and she could have just _told_ him, and what is even her problem anyway if she knows it's fake? Why is she . . .

"Ryan and Esposito," he blurts. "This is them." He rattles the paper. "This is payback for the save-the-date cards. And the shower decorations. And the multiple wedding registries . . ."

"Not payback," she cuts him off before he's even half done. It's been an . . . active couple of weeks at the twelfth. " _War,_ Castle." She looks him up and down, blazing. Terrifying. "You in?"

He's in. Oh, is he ever in.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The plan she lays out is devious in its simplicity. Elegant. Better than his own, though he sulks a little bit about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "
> 
> A/N: Second chapter of nothing-to-see-here.

 

 

It shouldn't surprise him. Day in and day out, he watches her shade the truth in the box. Holding back this and playing up that. He sees her thinking on her feet, manipulating what's seen and unseen. What gets overheard and what doesn't. Day in and day out, he watches her run this particular table, and it doesn't _exactly_ surprise him.

It just kind of terrifies him how easily—how ruthlessly—she turns it on them. Ryan and Esposito. Not that they don't deserve it.

The plan she lays out is devious in its simplicity. Elegant. Better than his own, though he sulks a little bit about that. He digs his heels in. Or he would if she weren't walking away from him already.

"But I _know_ people, Beckett. I am willing to call in markers—big-time markers—to make this happen." He jogs after her. "And that selfie. Beckett. Imagine—just _imagine_ —Esposito's duck lips in print."

That stops her. Well. It slows her, anyway. She half turns, and he can tell she's tempted, but her mind is made up. "Castle. We are _not_ escalating this with an _actual_ engagement announcement in _The Ledger."_

_"_ Like _your_ plan isn't escalating?" He lowers his voice as he pulls even with her. "You're calling in a _dad_ strike."

"No, Castle." She pauses at the end of the hall. The last turn before the bullpen. " _I'm_ having lunch with my dad. Whatever conclusions the dynamic duo might draw about that . . . well, that's up to you." She pivots on one heel. Pokes him hard in the chest. "Don't screw it up."

* * *

 

She falls into the role, perfectly and absolutely. Her heels ring out, and he'll never understand how the same shoes on the same cheap, scuffed tile can convey such entirely distinct moods—urgency, frustration, determination.

But today's soundtrack is rage, and every single person within earshot knows it. Every single person within earshot halts, mid-journey, mid-conversation, mid-yawn. Every single person turns and stares as she eats up the distance to her desk with punishing strides. As he trails in her wake.

"You've done _enough,_ Castle."

She's good. So good that it's no stretch at all when her name comes ragged from his throat.

"Beckett. I didn't. I _swear_ to you . . . I did not . . ."

"You know what?" She slams closed the drawer she's only just yanked open. "Maybe you didn't. Maybe _this_ " — she snatches the newspaper from his hand and tears it in two — "wasn't you. Maybe you didn't do _this_ particular thing. But it's _because_ of you. And now my dad . . ."

Something dark and complicated and terrible flashes across her face. If this is acting, she missed her calling. Truly. He reaches out a hand—the reflex to touch her is irresistible—but it falls away. She gives him a black, withering look, and it falls away.

"I want you gone." Her voice is low and deadly. It carries just enough that he registers the chain reaction out of the corner of his eye. Dropped jaws and meaning looks hopping from desk to desk to desk, all around them. "I don't care who you know or what you did or didn't do. I'm going to go figure out how to fix this with dad, and when I get back, I want you _gone."_

"Kate!" He stumbles after her. All the way to the elevator, but she's already inside. She's already stabbing the _door close_ button and he's hanging by his fingertips.

"Gone," she says again. Icy, for the benefit of the gathering crowd.

But in the last second—the _very_ last second—her face goes blank. She gives him a wink and a devilish smile. In the very last second, she mouths: _You're on._

* * *

 

"Dude, what . . . what was that about?" Ryan is first on the scene once the doors actually close.

"The hell'd you do now?" Esposito pulls up, a close second.

Ryan looks decidedly unnerved. Esposito flicks his wrist in a _be cool_ gesture, but he's shaken, too. _Good,_ Castle thinks, _Phase 1 accomplished._

"What did _I . . . ?_ " He scrapes a hand through his hair, wild-eyed and he knows it. He's still trying to shake off the scene himself. He goes on quietly. Slowly, like he's just putting the pieces together. He digs deep, clawing up every second of stark, staring panic she's just subjected him to and pushes it back out into the words. "It was you, wasn't it? Both of you. That stupid newspaper . . . "

"Newspaper?" Esposito's lip curls dismissively, but he's nervous already. He's hopped on the denial train a little too quickly. "No idea what you're talking about, bro. You, Ryan?"

"Newspaper? No. _No._ " Ryan shakes his head hard enough to give himself whiplash. "Newspaper." He tries out a laugh, apparently unaware that it's a complete failure. "No, man."

"So this wasn't you?" Castle strides back to her desk. He picks up the jagged halves and shoves one at Esposito, one at Ryan. The two of them make a show of looking long and hard, then swapping pieces. Standing side by side and fitting them back together.

"Dude." Ryan tips his chin down, smoothing Beckett and half the blurb out down his chest.

"Dude," Esposito echoes, holding up the other half.

She's managed to tear it perfectly down the center of the photo, severing the two of them completely. His heart takes a painful tumble at the sight. It's good for his performance, if nothing else. He fixes them with a glare. A Beckett-worthy glare. It must be, given how pale they both go.

"You're going to look me in the eye" —he leans a fraction of an inch closer to Ryan, though they're both looking like weak links right about now— "and tell me that you had _nothing_ to do with the fact that Beckett just kicked me to the . . ." He holds up his hands. "You know what? Forget that. You don't give a damn what happens to me. Fine, but what about Beckett?" He lets that set a few seconds. He lets whatever defense mechanisms they have just start to spool up, then hits again. Hard. "What about the fact that her _dad_ saw this, and now he thinks his daughter is pregnant by some _jackass_ he's never even met?"

It's a little over the top. Especially the jackass thing. He has regrets about the jackass thing, but he's in the moment. He's inspired, and it's working.

"Her dad?" Esposito's voice rises, unbidden. His skin tone loses another shade. "Beckett's _dad?_ He saw this?"

"That's not . . ." Ryan turns, as if showing his profile makes him invisible. And inaudible. "Javi, that's not possible, right?"

"I knew it. I _knew_ it was you two. Do you have _any_ idea how bad this is for her?" Castle hisses, looming over them both.

That might be a little too much. The looming. Esposito bristles, drawing himself up, but the damage is done. Ryan breaks.

"It's not, though." He casts a desperate look from Castle to a disgusted Esposito. "It's just a . . . just a fake. We did, like, five copies. There's no way Beckett's dad or _anyone_ else . . . It's not _possible._ "

"Not. Possible." Castle snatches the paper from him. He peers at it closely like he's getting a good look for the first time. "Pretty good." He gives a sniff. Eases off just enough that Ryan relaxes a little. "Not some half-baked Kinko's job."

"Kinko's." Esposito snorts. "This look like Kinko's to you?" He waves his half just out of Castle's reach. "Got a buddy at one of the big print shops. Mostly brochures, but they do neighborhood papers. Shopper Sav'r. Stuff like that. Professional."

"Professional." He slams his palm down on the desk. Turns and grabs Esposito's half, bringing the two into perfect alignment and flattening them out. " _Inside sources say it's a girl . . ._ Did it ever occur to you that people _pay_ for stuff like this on me?"

"Pay? Crap like this?"

"Pay?" Ryan is actually sweating at this point. "Don't . . . I mean . . . they'd have to verify something like this, right? A real newspaper would have to . . ."

"It's a _gossip_ column." Castle gives him the slow, loud English treatment. "They pay for gossip, and then they print it."

"Still . . . it's not . . . libel?" Ryan looks hopeful.

"Against Beckett, maybe." Esposito mulls it over. "Gotta be defamatory."

"And Castle hooking up with Beckett . . ." Ryan nods.

"Trade up," Esposito finishes. "Not defamatory, not libel."

They bump fists. Some of Ryan's color comes back, and Castle's had just about enough of that. He wrenches back control of the conversation. Knocks them off their pins again.

"It's good Beckett has you to explain the finer points of her legal options to her," he says sourly as he drops into his chair "Maybe when her dad gets here, he'll lend a hand, too. He's a lawyer, you know."

"Dad?" Esposito repeats blankly, looking a little sick. as he turns to Ryan, who's even worse off.

"Gets here?"

"Legal options?"

It's an unfamiliar voice. One Castle's never heard before, and when he looks—when they all look, in terrible, slow-mo unison—he doesn't recognize the man standing at the edge of the bullpen. He couldn't possibly, and still there's no doubt in his mind who it is. No doubt at all, even before he speaks again.

"And what legal options might my daughter need to explore?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, thanks for not reading what was never written.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's chaos. It's a disaster. It's the end of the f*****g world, and Castle is paralyzed. Incapable of anything but staring dumbly and internally generating thesaurus entries for apocalypse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: What? What are you looking at? The evil sown by Cora Clavia? Hmmmm?

 

 

It's chaos. It's a disaster. It's the end of the fucking world, and Castle is paralyzed. Incapable of anything but staring dumbly and internally generating thesaurus entries for _apocalypse._

_Beckett_. He needs Beckett, like, five minutes ago. Because this was _not_ the plan. Her dad was supposed to be an extra. Ryan and Esposito and all the looky-loos were just supposed to _see_ him from a distance. Sixty seconds of her playing to a room already braced for the worst, and her dad none the wiser. _That_ was the plan. And Ryan and Esposito and their pathetic, _misguided_ efforts at avoidance or damage control or whatever it is they think they're doing were _definitely_ not part of it.

"Coffee?" Ryan's voice is well up into boys' choir range as he babbles about the awesome machine they have now.

"Thank you." He frowns slightly as he leads to one side, looking past the highly obvious barrier Ryan and Esposito are trying to throw up between him and Beckett's desk. "But I never touch the stuff after ten."

"Decaf?" Esposito elbows Ryan hard. It's a good instinct. His partner is a millisecond away from snapping. A millisecond away from apologies and excuses and quite possibly a good, old-fashioned ugly cry. Nobody needs that. " _Go._ Get Mr. Beckett some decaf. Now."

Beckett's dad looks like he's about to decline the offer, but he's too slow. Ryan is already setting the squad record and his own personal best time for the straightaway from bull pen to break room.

"Jim. Like I told you the last four times, Javier. It's Jim." He turns to Castle, hand extended on the second iteration of his name. "And you must be . . ."

"Castle." It sounds wrong. Absolutely wrong. Like a lie. He's _lying_ to her _dad._ "Rick," he tries, but it's no better. Nothing will be better until Beckett gets here. He should have texted her. He should have gotten the hell out of dodge and _found_ her. That's what he _should_ have been doing while Ryan and Esposito were losing their collective shit, but it's too late now, and his mouth is on a roll. "Richard. Rodgers, actually. At first. But Castle now. Legally. I changed . . . I'm a writer and . . ."

"Richard Castle," Jim says, weathering a far-too-persistent handshake without the faintest hint of a smile. "Yes. I know who you are."

Castle pulls his hand back at last. He can practically hear the sweat beading on Esposito's brow behind him, and it takes everything in him not to scrub his own suddenly moist palm on the thigh of his jeans.

"Of course. You would. Know who I am. From Beckett." He frowns. Dread and the vague sense that every single person but him either doesn't or absolutely _cannot_ know something important about all this press in on him, but panic is driving the bus now. He's lost the thread, entirely. "Kate, I mean. You'd know from . . . well, _you're_ Beckett. Mr. Beckett."

"Jim's fine."

"She's not here." Esposito tries to jump in. Tries to get Castle's attention with a _what the hell_ set of knuckles to the kidney. "Beckett. Detective Beckett is . . . _out_ at the moment."

"She's expecting me." He looks from Castle to Esposito, his tone implying that Beckett's absence is their fault somehow. Or maybe it's them. Maybe it's the guilt. He turns his wrist up. "I suppose I got here sooner than she'd have thought. Just got out of a meeting on this side of town."

He looks around, clearly in search of some place to sit. Castle's chair is the obvious choice. The terribly, tragically obvious choice right next to the fake newspaper.

"Break room," Esposito says under his breath.

"Break room. Definitely. The break room is _much_ better." Castle nods vigorously. Manically. "Coffee . . . decafs all around? I can do cappuccino, latte, straight-up espresso . . ."

"Have mine. I'd like to stay close." Jim brushes past them to set his briefcase down between the chair and Beckett's desk. "Katie sounded like she had something big on her mind when she called."

"Big?"

It's the worst possible word to latch on to. Worse even than that, because it's the two of them—Castle and Esposito—in stereo, as all hope vanishes. As Jim settles into the chair, and his elbow nudges the desk just enough to send the newspaper fluttering to the ground.

Esposito makes a last ditch effort. Castle has to give him credit for the dive, but it's no use. Jim's already straightening. He's already scanning the text. Already folding one piece, then the other. Tucking both into the inside pocket of his jacket. Slowly. Carefully. Silently.

And then it gets worse. Then Jim Beckett dusts off the knees of his impeccably pressed pants and stands. He fixes Castle with a look that puts every single one of his daughter's to shame and says, in a tone that brooks exactly no argument.

"Son. I think I'd like a word with you."

* * *

 

Ryan and Esposito flee. Castle peeks wistfully through the blinds of the conference room, but they're gone. He can practically see their shapes in the dust they kick up, one big, one little. Both cowards. Both traitors.

"Sir. I can explain." He turns from the window, determined to face the music without the least idea how, exactly, to go about it.

Jim taps the low table in front of him. He has the newspaper smoothed out, the halves carefully fitted together. "I very much doubt that you can, Mr. Castle."

"Rick." Castle moves to sit, then can't decide between the couch to the man's left or the arm chair a table's length away.

"Rick," he repeats. He looks up and there's a hint of something that might be a smile in the vicinity of his eyes. "You've settled on that, then?"

"Yes." He lets out a breath. Half a laugh and settles for the arm chair. Eye contact or some other half-baked justification in the back of his head. "I'm sorry," he begins and finds that's pretty much all he has. He starts again anyway. "You're right. I'm sure there's no way I could explain" — he gestures to the stupid newspaper like it's something that's been dead awhile — " _that_ to anyone's satisfaction, but . . ."

"But I wasn't supposed to see it, was I?" Castle shakes his head miserably. "Some kind of prank, then." Jim folds his hands. He gives away nothing at all regarding where he falls on the spectrum from _boys will be boys_ to _swift, decisive action_ when it comes to pranks.

"A prank. Yes . . ." Castle hedges. Tries to gather his thoughts, but Jim cuts in.

"And there's no truth to it?" Another terse question. Another unflinching stare that says he's not a fan of hedging.

"No!" His eyes fly wide. The syllable hits the windows and bounces back. He's a mess. Misery at the truth of it. Worry that it's an insult, to be so emphatic like that, but the denials keep on coming. "None. Sir. None. Beckett— _Kate_ —and I . . . we're . . . it's just professional."

He gives Castle a look that says he very much doubts that, too. As well he might, given the evidence before him. "You have a daughter."

There's no rising inflection. No question mark at all, but Castle blurts out an answer anyway, scrambling for common ground. Scrambling for _any_ kind of ground and trying to remind himself he's not, in fact, sixteen, sweating in a rented tux and waiting for his prom date to make an appearance.

"A daughter. Yes. Alexis."

Jim nods. It seems less like agreement and more like letting the silence work, though Castle has no idea to what end. His mind races, his mood swinging wildly from a quiet, unexpected kind of elation that she talks to her dad about him—talks about his kid at least—to comprehensive shame when he remembers the stupid blurb.

"And what is she going to be when she grows up?"

Castle startles. His mouth opens, then snaps shut. The question abrupt. A non-sequitur, and he's too lost in his own thoughts to keep up.

Jim clarifies, "Your daughter."

"Oh . . . you know. She's fifteen." He smiles. He can't help it when he thinks about the endless possibilities she's blown through already. The research she gathers endlessly. Notebooks and binders, row after row in her bedroom. All the mornings she's burst in, bouncing on the bed to wake him with the latest grand plan for the rest of her life. "A paleontologist last week. Concert violinist this week."

"That's how Katie was." Jim smiles, too. Just as helpless against the same kind of memory. "Rock star, though. And deep sea biochemist, I think."

Castle grins at the image. Beckett singing into her hairbrush. Beckett sliding on her mother's reading glasses and pinning her hair up in a bun. Scrawling things on a clip board. He grins, but the moment is short lived.

There's a commotion in the hallway. They both turn just in time to see a uniform crashing back, setting the wire mesh to ringing. Her partner wrestles their hard case to the ground. It's over in two seconds. Over before the half a dozen others who've come running can even lend a hand, but the damage is done.

"This was never on the radar." Jim hangs his head, the smile that memory brought well and truly gone now. "This."

"I can't imagine," Castle says, even though he can. Even though he suddenly _can_ imagine what it would be like to have Alexis choose work like this. He's all too able, and he reaches for comfort. For some kind of reassurance for them both. "They're careful. Everyone here. I know . . . what you saw . . . this . . ." — he reaches forward to cover up the paper with one broad palm — "I know what it must look like. That it's not exactly . . . confidence inspiring. But Ryan and Esposito . . . there isn't a better team in all the NYPD."

"You believe that?"

"I see it every day." He nods, eager to give the man something. _Something. "_ I stake my life on it."

"And the life of your little girl's father."

Castle doesn't have an answer for that. It's not that he hasn't thought about it. For how it must be for his mother. For Alexis. But he doesn't have an answer. Jim doesn't look like he expected him to.

"She's good at it, isn't she?" he asks. It's quiet. Resigned, as if he already knows the answer and doesn't much like it.

"She's the best of them all." Castle says it without hesitation. "And not just that . . ." — he gestures to the hallway. To the long-gone hard case, and the long-stilled fence around the bullpen — "not just the scary parts. It's the way she has with families. Her empathy, her tenacity . . . she's amazing."

"She talks about you. Quite a bit."

"She does?" He sits up straighter. It's a strange follow-up. It comes with a strange, penetrating look that leaves him inclined to squirm. Defensive and stupidly glib. "All of it flattering, I'm sure."

"Flattering. No, not the word I'd use." Castle feels like he should apologize. Like he should try to explain the unexplainable. Him and her and how they are. He feels like he should say _something,_ but there's a hint of a smile surfacing again on Jim Beckett's face. "You get under her skin."

"A gift, I guess." He tries to smile back, though it's a pretty miserable assessment. It seems to be, but Jim surprises him.

"It _is_ a gift, Rick." There's fire in the quiet words. Sudden urgency and more feeling by far than Castle's seen in the man in the last agonizing half hour or so. "It's a gift that someone still _can_ get under her skin."

Jim pushes himself up from the chair, then. Castle rises, too. Instinctive manners, though he's struck dumb and brimming with questions all at once. But Jim is shaking his hand. He's saying _nice to meet you_ things and calling him _Son_ again.

He's going, and Castle belatedly registers the tap of heels on tile. Fast, then slow. Urgent, then uncertain. Annoyed. Panicked. He turns.

_Beckett_

Her name never makes it out of his mouth. Their eyes meet for half a second, but there's no time. Her dad has her by the shoulders and time for the two of them to compare notes is clearly not part of _his_ plan. He's marching her to elevator, and the doors are closing. She's gone, and there's no time for anything.

No time to even wink.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Epilogue to go. Or there would be, if there were anything to which one might append an epilogue.


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He hangs around. He doesn't know what else to do, once he rejects the idea of going after them. Throwing himself at her father's feet and taking the blame. He mostly rejects the idea. Mostly because she'd kill him for it. And because there's a strong possibility that blame taking would develop into hand-asking-for or worse. He's not himself right now. Or maybe he is. It's possible that Operation Heliotrope has driven him off the deep end. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final installment of the thing that never was, but for which Cora Clavia will surely be punished.

 

 

He hangs around. He doesn't know what else to do, once he rejects the idea of going after them. Throwing himself at her father's feet and taking the blame. He _mostly_ rejects the idea. Mostly because she'd kill him for it. And because there's a strong possibility that blame taking would develop into hand-asking-for or worse. He's not himself right now. Or maybe he is. It's possible that Operation Heliotrope has driven him off the deep end.

Ryan and Esposito slink back in at some point. They mutter half-hearted apologies. They prod him for details and lay the groundwork for their own defense. They're definitely suspicious that they've been played, so they try to get that out of him, too but they come up empty on all fronts.

He's got nothing to say, and his marathon silence gets the job done anyway. It makes them miserable. It makes them writhe. And it ultimately shuts them up, along with the rest of the bullpen. Everything has an almost funereal quality, but at least it's quiet.

He waits out the clock. An hour. More. He checks his phone obsessively. He balls up the newspaper he somehow ended up with and slams it into the trashcan at his feet. He pulls it back out again and smooths it on the desk. He folds it away, and generally has no idea what to do with himself.

He wanders when it's too much. From desk to break room to bathroom while it pushes on past the ninety-minute mark, and the energy he can burn keeping his hands busy just isn't enough.

"You had. One. Job. Castle."

The low, deadly voice makes him jump. She's caught him mid-circuit. Not back in the stealth hallway, but stranded. Better than the alternative, he thinks. Better than . . . whatever comes next shaking out in front of a live studio audience back in the bullpen.

"I know. Beckett, I know . . . I'm . . ." He turns, approaching with his hands out, palms up. A posture of apology. Surrender, but he gets a good look at her, then. He pulls up short. "Are you ok?"

She doesn't look _not_ ok, exactly. She just doesn't look . . . exactly like herself, either. She's not actually furious with him, for one thing. She gives him a little _gotcha_ gesture, but it's sheepish. A little shame-faced. _Katie,_ he thinks. Hears her father's voice inside his head and wonders if this is how Katie looked when she got caught doing something she shouldn't.

"Ok . . ." When she finally speaks, It's repetition, rather than an answer. She's shaking her head at her own shoes, arms folded across her chest. A time-buying move he's seen her use over and over. "Shouldn't I be asking _you_ that?"

"Me?" He leans his back against the wall next to her. "Oh, what's one little heart attack before forty?"

That gets a laugh. Something small—truncated—that leaves her pressing a hand low to her ribs.

"You're not ok." He crowds toward her, alarmed.

"I got . . . held up." She fends him off with a palm. "Ran down to the corner store to keep out of the way while you . . ."

"Made a complete mess of everything?" He's trying not to hover. "What happened?"

"Kid snatched the purse off a lady's shoulder."

"Right as a cop walks in?" He frowns. "I thought that only happened on TV."

"My lucky day, I guess. That's why I was late."

"And your dad was early." The penny drops. Realization, and she knows she's caught. "Your dad is _always_ early, isn't he?"

"Usually," she says, admitting nothing. Admitting everything with the press of her lips.

_"You . . ._ " he sputters. He kind of wants to shake her. He kind of wants to kiss her full on the mouth and whisper low in her ear that he'll have his revenge.

" _I_ wasn't supposed to be that late. And _I_ figured you could handle things for two minutes." She flicks a sideways glance at him. "And I figured letting you sweat just a little might teach you a valuable lesson about imaginary babies."

"Lesson," he scoffs. You should know by now I'm unteachable. And it hurts little Heliotrope when you call her imaginary."

She laughs. Her ribs catch her out again. She twists at the waist, giving the muscles an experimental stretch. It's not a rousing success. She grimaces, and he wonders how much worse it is for the brave front she must have put up with her dad. Standing tall and moving easily, no matter how much it cost her.

"Was it . . . bad?" He doesn't really know what to ask. And he kind of doesn't want to know. He kind of never wants to talk about this day ever again, but it seems _wrong_ not to ask. Cowardly.

"Nah. He just got in a lucky kick." Her eyes skitter away like _she_ never wants to talk about it either.

"Beckett . . ."

"Bad?" She gives him a sidelong _you first_ look, then sighs, resigned. "No. It's never _bad_ with my dad. He just . . . _wonders_ a lot."

The word is intriguing. She's chewing her lip and fidgeting as much as her sore ribs will let her, like she _does_ want to talk about it, but she doesn't _want_ to want to.

"Wonders?" he prompts cautiously. It's hard not to seem eager even though this is really one of the world's most awkward moments. But he loves little glimpses like this, rare as they are. The times when she forgets that being annoyed by him is a full-time job and they just . . talk. He loves just hearing about _her,_ and it's hard not to settle in.

"Oh, you know . . . " She drops her voice low. Makes it stern and eerily calm and measured. It's a pretty good rendition of her dad. "He _wonders_ about the wisdom of pranks in the workplace. He _wonders_ if I realize how important reputation is, especially for a woman in my profession, and he _wonders_ if I'd even though about how easily something like that could get out of hand . . ."

Castle snorts. "He _wonders_ why you let an idiot follow you around . . ."

"Well, I wonder that, too," she says, softening it with a sly smile and a bump of the shoulder that makes her wince again.

"You and me both."

He tries to match her tone—to keep things light—but he swings and misses. The truth is, he does wonder . He _has_ been wondering for going on two hours why it took a close encounter of the Jim Beckett kind to make him realize that the con they mapped out—the one he sold so easily to Ryan and Esposito—is way too plausible. And she's hurt on top of everything else, and he wasn't there. He didn't have her back, and she's somebody's _daughter,_ and it's all just depressing.

"He likes you," she says.

Castle's head whips around. He's sure he can't have heard her right. "He said that?"

"No." She looks at him like he's crazy. "But I could tell."

She looks a little annoyed by the fact, that she _knows_ or that it's true at all. He's not sure which, but she's more than a little annoyed, and a light goes on somewhere for Castle. He thinks maybe it's not just a Kate thing, but a Beckett thing in general. Plausible deniability. Saying things without saying them.

"I like him," he says. This time it's _her_ head that whips around. "I mean . . . I can _imagine_ liking him. In another universe where I wasn't completely, _pants-wettingly_ terrified of him."

Her brow furrows. "I'm not sure that universe exists."

"Yeah. No." He smiles down at the floor. "Pretty sure in every plane of the multiverse, your dad scares the hell out of me."

"Just the way he likes it."

It sounds like thinking out loud, and he puts his finger on another thing. Another way she's not exactly herself right now. She's _mad,_ and even though he'd have said two minutes ago that he was well-acquainted with every facet of Angry Beckett, this is new. The shades of this particular anger are familiar in an unexpected way.

_You have a daughter?_

"He worries about you," he says tentatively, half-thinking he shouldn't be saying it at all.

"I'm not a _child_ ," she snaps. Apparently she agrees with that particular half, but he presses on. For her, as much as for her dad. For himself and _them_ in some strange way, too.

"You're not _a_ child. But you are _his_ child." She's silent, so he pushes his luck. He goes on. "That never stops. And this job is . . ."

"Dangerous? _Violent?"_ Her palm makes contact with her ribs. Too hard, and she hisses through her teeth. "Like I don't _know_ all that. Like I don't see it every single day?"

"But he _doesn't_ see it every day," he says. "He hardly ever sees it. Mostly he just imagines it. And, trust me, there's no mind as terrifyingly creative as a parent's when it comes to every single, awful thing that could happen to their kid."

He presses his lips together, hard. He's said enough, if not too much already, and he's not even sure why. He's not sure it isn't some strange Jedi Mind Trick of Jim Beckett's, to have _someone_ talk to her like this. To have someone show her that she _matters,_ and she's more than the job, however good at it she is.

"So what's your point, Castle?" she says finally. It's sarcastic. She kicks at the side of his shoe. A sullen _message received_ gesture.

"My point is little Heliotrope is _not_ going to the academy." He dodges the back of her hand just in time. He doubles over, protecting his midsection as she gives chase. "She can be a fire jumper or a stunt woman or the next Steve Irwin, but she cannot be a cop. As her father, I forbid it."

She corners him, a familiar, furious, twisted up smile on her lips now, though when he bends his head to offer his ear, the twist she gives it definitely has a little extra something on it, ribs or no ribs. She pushes at him once for good measure and turns back toward the bullpen.

"Come on." She straightens her shoulders like she's not looking forward to what comes next. "We should find Ryan and Esposito. Call a truce."

"A truce?!" He's indignant. Those two have gotten nothing like the comeuppance they deserve.

"Castle. This is my job. Things have already gotten out of hand. I'm done." She gives him a hard look over her shoulder.

A hard look and a lightning-quick flicker of one eyelid in the very last second before she turns and strides off.

"Was that . . . did you just wink?," he hisses, jogging after her. "Signal if that was a wink! BECKETT!"

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And someone seems to have left this curtain open for no reason, so I'll just tug it closed. This space left intentionally blank.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading this thing I didn't write.


End file.
